by Myra Johnson
Papa sidled over and slid his arm around Annemarie’s waist. “Oh, they will be soon, I’m certain.” He planted a kiss on her temple. “Congratulations again, Annie-girl. I may have balked at your artsy ideas at first, but I’m not too proud to admit I was wrong. Those uppity Ouachita potters are probably quaking in their clay-stained aprons as we speak.”
Papa left then to return to the factory, but not without some playful grousing about how much he missed having Annemarie in the front office. Mama and Mrs. Vickary left a few minutes later, and though the shop seemed too quiet, Annemarie didn’t mind one bit being alone with Samuel.
She approached him with a deferential nod. “Good day, kind sir. Are you shopping for anything special? Perhaps a gift for your mother, or your . . . sweetheart?”
His teasing smile lit up the room. “I’m afraid the gift I’d like to give my sweetheart must be purchased elsewhere.”
“Is that so?” Annemarie waltzed around him, letting her fingers glide up his coat sleeve. “Does she prefer roses? I can refer you to an excellent florist.”
“Roses aren’t quite what I had in mind.”
“Then perhaps a shawl, or a dainty pair of lace gloves. There’s a lovely little boutique down the street.”
“I wouldn’t dream of covering my sweetheart’s hands with anything but this.” Samuel trapped her hand in his and drew it to his lips, eliciting a shiver. “Unless it would be . . .”
Annemarie’s stomach fluttered. She could scarcely breathe. “Yes?”
Every trace of playfulness vanished. “I think I was already falling in love with you the first time Gilbert showed me your photograph. But you were his then, and I had no hope.” He swallowed, the cords of his neck tightening. “I never thought—never dreamed—”
She hushed him with two fingers upon his lips. “When will you accept that Gilbert and I were never meant to be? I’ve given my heart to you now, Samuel Vickary, and it’s yours to keep . . . forever.”
His hooded gray eyes turned darkly serious as he searched her face. “Are you sure? Absolutely certain? Because if there’s even the slightest chance—”
“For Gilbert and me?” Annemarie gave her head a firm shake. “If you don’t believe anything else, believe this: Gilbert Ballard is out of my life and out of my—”
The front door burst open. Annemarie spun around to see Evelyn Ballard sweep into the shop, the tails of a fox-fur boa riding in her wake. “My dear, dear girl, can you ever forgive me? I had every intention of arriving in time for the ceremonies, but Marguerite would accidentally drop an entire jar of peach preserves on my new peau de soie pumps the moment I started out the door.”
Still dealing with Mrs. Ballard’s unexpected—not to mention untimely—arrival, Annemarie struggled not to laugh. She suspected Marguerite’s “accident” was no accident at all, because the perceptive servant would know Evelyn Ballad was the last person Annemarie cared to see at her grand opening.
But just as she opened her mouth to reply, another visitor appeared on the threshold. Annemarie looked past Mrs. Ballard’s boa-bedecked shoulder and realized she’d been wrong. The very last person she’d hoped to see this morning now stood before her.
The air whooshed from her lungs as she uttered his name: “Gilbert.”
26
Good morning, Annemarie . . . Samuel.” Gilbert’s tone was polite yet chilling, not unlike his catlike stare. His glance shifted between the two of them, and he grinned knowingly.
Annemarie stiffened. “I’m sorry you both missed the festivities. I believe there are still a few cookies left. May I serve you a cup of cider?” She turned toward the refreshment table and hoped they wouldn’t notice how their arrival had unsettled her.
More than that, she hoped Samuel didn’t notice. He struggled hard enough to trust in her affection only to be waylaid with doubts every time her former fiancé appeared.
Dear God, will Gilbert always hold such power over our feelings?
Mrs. Ballard joined her at the table and helped herself to a plate of cookies. She bit into a crispy gingersnap, crumbs dribbling onto her bosom before she could catch them. “Mmm, delicious. Your mother baked these, didn’t she?” Brushing away the crumbs with a napkin, she glanced around the shop. “Charming, simply charming. I’ll be sure to tell all my friends to patronize your establishment.”
Patronize being the key word, naturally. Annemarie read disdain in every pore of the woman’s smugly smiling face. Why had Mrs. Ballard really come this morning? Certainly not to admire Annemarie’s ceramics. More than likely, she coerced Gilbert into coming along for the sole purpose of reminding Annemarie of everything she’d given up by not marrying Mrs. Ballard’s son.
If Gilbert weren’t standing right there—and looking more handsome and self-assured than Annemarie had seen him since before the war—she’d explain to Mrs. Ballard yet again it was her son, not Annemarie, who called off the engagement.
And that Annemarie was now completely and consummately in love with Samuel Vickary.
Gilbert strode farther into the shop, then nudged the door closed with his elbow. Only then did Annemarie notice he used a cane now. He stood tall again, and proud, an arrogance about him that set Annemarie’s nerves on edge. He lifted an eyebrow in Samuel’s direction. “You’re certainly quiet this morning, Sam. Not even a friendly hello for an old friend?”
Samuel dipped his chin, but his smile never found his eyes. “How are you, Gilbert?”
“Fit as a fiddle, as you can plainly see.” Gilbert clenched his left hand and rapped on the top of his artificial leg. “If you don’t count the missing parts. But all I’ve lost is a limb. When I think of all the poor souls who’ve lost their minds, if not their souls . . .”
An unreadable look passed between Gilbert and Samuel—a look that sparked a sudden protective urge in Annemarie. She filled two cups with cider, offering one to Gilbert and one to Samuel. “Please, gentlemen, no talk of the war on this fine day. I won’t have it.”
“I agree, dear.” Mrs. Ballard sipped cider while strolling about the shop. “I must say, Annemarie, you do have quite a talent. Your work is so much more decorative than those pedestrian pieces your father turns out in his factory.”
Now Annemarie’s hackles rose in defense of her father. “Kendall Pottery Works is a highly respected business in this community—all across Arkansas, in fact. If not for our pedestrian ceramics, local restaurants, hotels, schools, and wholesalers would be forced to take their business farther afield, along with a sizable chunk of the area’s economic foundation.”
Gilbert’s mouth curled in an admiring smile. “I had no idea you were so civic-minded, Annemarie.”
“Of course she is, dear. She’s a business entrepreneur, after all.” Completing her circuit, Mrs. Ballard set her plate and cup on the end of a display case. “Come, Gilbert. We must be on our way. So nice to see you again, Samuel. All the best with your shop, Annemarie.”
Holding the door for his mother, Gilbert paused and cast a backward glance toward Annemarie. For a fraction of a second, the disdainful look he’d arrived with mellowed into something between contrition and yearning. Then, as his gaze slid to Samuel, his eyes hardened again. With a brisk nod, he shuffled out the door and was gone.
Annemarie turned to Samuel, ready to apologize for both Mrs. Ballard’s pomposity and Gilbert’s baffling attitude, but the words froze on her tongue when she caught the troubled look on his face. She went to him and looped her arm through his. “Don’t, Sam. He isn’t worth it.”
He tried to laugh, but the sound was hollow. “He still wants you. Can’t you see?”
“I don’t care what Gilbert wants. You shouldn’t either.”
“But—”
“I said, don’t.” Annemarie moved closer, until she could feel the warmth of Samuel’s breath against her face. She cupped his cheek and slanted her lips against his, while her other hand crept behind his head so he couldn’t pull away.
She needn’t ha
ve worried. He drew in a long, trembling breath through his nose as he enfolded her in his arms, and their lips fused in a kiss like a white-hot flame. When Samuel’s lips turned salty and wet, Annemarie realized she tasted his tears.
Gently she broke the kiss and smoothed away the wetness with her thumb. “Sam, Sam, my darling, what’s wrong?”
“Wrong? Nothing!” Hands at her waist, he rested his forehead against hers. “Nothing in my life has ever felt so right.”
How could I have been so wrong?
Gilbert tore his gaze from the shop window and gripped the handle of his cane until his fingers throbbed. The headache he’d staved off earlier after a hastily arranged meeting with his morphine supplier now pummeled his brain with a vengeance.
Why had he let his mother coerce him into accompanying her to Annemarie’s shop?
Even more idiotic, why hadn’t he resisted the urge for one last glance? If he’d only kept walking, he’d have spared himself the torment of seeing Annemarie in Samuel’s arms. Their kiss, so passionate, so tender, so—
“Gilbert. The car is waiting.” His mother summoned him with an impatient wave. “Thomas will be expecting you to return to your hotel duties.”
Yes, indeed, he’d have been much better off sitting at his cramped little desk in a back room of the Arlington, tweaking cleaning staff schedules while trying to ignore the conglomeration of kitchen aromas competing with the smells of furniture polish and floor cleaner.
This was not the life he’d planned, not by a long shot.
Before his mother could embarrass him in front of every shopper and business patron along Central Avenue, he limped down the sidewalk to where Zachary waited at the curb. The tall, ebony-complexioned driver opened the rear door of the Peerless and assisted Gilbert’s mother inside, then turned to help Gilbert.
He hesitated, chewing the inside of his lip. “Never mind, Zachary. I’ll walk.”
“You sure, sir?” Zachary cast him a worried frown, his gaze flicking toward Gilbert’s bad leg.
His mother leaned sideways on the seat, craning her neck until she caught Gilbert’s eye. “Don’t be foolish, son. Get in the car now.”
That clinched it. “I’ll see you at home this evening, Mother. Have a lovely afternoon.”
With a jaunty wave, Gilbert began his march down Central Avenue—in the opposite direction from the Arlington Hotel. Let his mother stew and fret. Let Stanley deal with his own staff scheduling problems for the day. Gilbert had people to see. Secrets to uncover.
A sweetheart to win back.
Over a week now, and not so much as a glimpse of Gilbert in a hospital corridor, much less a proper call at Mary’s home.
And he’d promised!
Momentarily blinded by welling tears, Mary fumbled as she reached for a medicine vial. It slipped through her shaking fingers and shattered on the tile floor.
“For goodness’ sake, Mary McClarney!” Lois jumped back, nearly spilling the tray of instruments ready to be sterilized.
Mary swiped at her damp cheeks with the corner of her apron. “Now I’ve done it. Mrs. Daley will be taking this out of my wages.” Sniffling, she scurried to the closet for a broom and dustpan.
“Here, let me.” Lois set down her tray and then wrested the broom from Mary’s hands. “Get a towel to soak up this mess. Then we’ll toss it all in the waste bin and Mrs. Daley will never be the wiser.”
“Until the next inventory.” Mary bit her lip. “No, I’ll tell the truth and pay the consequences. Better that than what happened to the orderly who was caught pilfering morphine tablets from the dispensary.”
Lois barked out a grim laugh as she swept up fragments of broken glass. “Can’t believe he’d be so bold. Or stupid. This is a military hospital, for heaven’s sake. Did he think they wouldn’t notice? And you know who I really feel sorry for? The poor souls he’s gotten addicted to morphine, and now here they are without a supplier. The situation will only get worse, you’ll see.”
Lois’s tirade stirred something in Mary’s memory—something she realized she’d been avoiding all these weeks. She dropped the towel she’d just taken from the cupboard and clutched her stomach.
Gilbert, an addict?
Dear Father, no!
But she was a nurse. How could she deny the obvious? The slurred speech, drowsiness, glassy-eyed stares. Sweating, chills. Euphoria plummeting into despondency in the blink of an eye.
And what of those vague “appointments” that, to the best of Mary’s knowledge, had nothing to do with his physical therapy?
“Mary?” Lois touched her arm. “Are you coming down with something? You’re whiter than your apron.”
“No—yes—” Mary swallowed, tried to think.
Lois guided her to a chair. “If you need to go home for the day, I can cover for you. Mrs. Daley will understand.”
Mrs. Daley, understand? Not likely. But Mary decided she must see Gilbert immediately. If her suspicions proved true, he needed her more than ever—or so she dared to believe.
She glanced up at Lois with a weak smile. “Actually, I’m not feeling well at all. Perhaps it’d be best if I left early. Would you make my excuses to Mrs. Daley?”
“Sure, honey. You bet.” Lois helped her to her feet. “Can you make it home on your own?”
“I’ll be fine. I’m just a little . . . nauseated.” Which certainly she was.
Lois arched a brow. “Nauseated? Mary, you aren’t—”
“No. Heavens, no!” Mary’s cheeks flamed. “It’s probably something I ate, that’s all. A little rest and some fresh air and I’ll be right as rain.” She gave Lois a grateful hug and hurried out before her friend could ply her with other questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.
Once she’d traipsed far enough up Central Avenue to be certain Mrs. Daley wouldn’t glance out a hospital window and glimpse an “ailing” young nurse who looked much too vigorous to be claiming stomach distress, she quickened her pace. It was just past two, so she hoped to find Gilbert at the Arlington. If she confronted him there, in the privacy of his office, perhaps she could convince him to be honest with her about his addiction.
And about his feelings.
Leaving the officers’ wing after sharing a prayer with an ailing colonel, Samuel headed across the hospital. The highlight of his days had become his visits with Sergeant King, whose unassuming nature reminded Samuel of his own father.
Dad had been so proud to know his only son would get a college education. And while it saddened Samuel to think his father died without seeing him graduate or knowing of his call to the ministry, Samuel couldn’t help but feel relief Dad hadn’t lived to see his son go off to war.
When he reached the nurses’ station outside Sergeant King’s ward, he paused to give his uniform blouse a tug and straighten the cross pin on his collar. It had been a good week. Not as many nightmares, if that were any measure. He began to wonder if Donald Russ’s reappearance in his life might possibly be God’s doing, because during their conversations over the past several days Samuel found himself closer and closer to believing he could put the past behind him.
Closer to believing God could—and did—forgive this hopeless sinner.
“Hey, Sam.” Donald breezed through the swinging doors from the ward, his white coattails flapping. “Just the man I want to see. You have time for a cup of coffee?”
“It’ll have to be quick. I still have a number of patients to see.”
“You and me both. But this is important.” The doctor clapped him on the shoulder and propelled him in the direction of the staff lounge.
Samuel shot him a questioning frown. “You talk like a man with an agenda.”
Donald’s easy smile turned serious. He slanted a nod toward the lounge door, indicating he wouldn’t say more until they could talk in private.
Once inside, and after Donald made sure they were alone, Samuel leaned against the counter while the doctor poured coffee. “Well? Are you going to fill me in or no
t?”
The doctor took a tentative sip from his mug. “I need a favor, Sam.”
“Anything. Just ask.”
“I visited a church yesterday, and afterward during coffee hour the pastor invited me to attend a small dinner party he’s hosting next Friday.”
Samuel looked askance at his friend, who didn’t look at all pleased about this invitation. “And?”
“And, since I happened to mention I’m single, I think the pastor’s looking to pair me up with his marriageable spinster daughter.”
Suppressing a laugh, Samuel swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee to keep from spewing it across the space between them. He gasped in pain and shock as he plopped his mug onto the counter and fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief. Dabbing his lips, he said, “Excuse me, Donald, but may I ask how you arrived at this conclusion?”
“Well, it just seemed odd he’d randomly invite a complete stranger to a dinner party, so I casually asked if I might know anyone else on the guest list. He said there’d be one other army veteran from the congregation, along with his lady friend.”
Samuel scratched beneath his ear. “Sorry, I still don’t get the connection. Where does the spinster daughter come in?”
Donald heaved an annoyed sigh. “As I was leaving, an elderly lady who happened to overhear the conversation couldn’t wait to inform me how glad the pastor was when the war ended, because it meant the ‘boys’ would be returning to Hot Springs and he could finally marry off the last of his daughters.”
“Ah, I see.” This time Samuel couldn’t suppress the chuckle he’d been holding in. “I assume you are now going to explain what this has to do with the favor you’re asking of me?”
“I’m getting to it.” The good doctor glared but then had the decency to lower his gaze in apology. “See, I mentioned to the pastor I’ve got an army buddy who’s also new in town . . . sort of . . . so I asked if you could join the party.”